


Stealing joy is a championship sport

by Ms Mephisto (elizaria)



Category: Pitch Black (2000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-04
Updated: 2010-06-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaria/pseuds/Ms%20Mephisto
Summary: [originally posted 2010-06-04]As one really awesome person (♥[personal profile] sharpest_asp) commented on my kink_bingo post with a request I started doing that one first. Which at first felt awkward as I've been trying to write Riddick for smallfandom_bb in what feels like forever and not getting anywhere, this was suddenly like pulling on a favourite pair of broken in jeans. And yet, no porn. Ummm...?So now I'm wondering if this'll even count as a kink_bingo square considering there's a helluva little porn in here? But hell, it's written so I post.Fandom: Pitch BlackPairing: Riddick/JohnsWords: 1649Kink_bingo: shaving/depilationNotes: totally unbeta'ed





	Stealing joy is a championship sport

Johns stops cold as he steps out of the battered skiff, he hears the rasping noises before he sees him. Watches as Riddick smears grease over his naked skull only to shave it off line by line with a sharpened piece of metal. "I thought I'd told you no shivs."  
  
"So I heard." Riddick keeps shaving. "This isn't a shiv, it's a personal grooming appliance."  
  
"Fuck you Riddick." Johns can't ( _mustn't_ ) look so he sidles to lean against the skiff appearing for all like he's keeping an eye on Riddick. Which he is. Sort of. He can hear each rasp as the shiv slides over Riddick's skull, shaving it down to the soft stubble Riddick always kept. Like velvet against the soft skin of Johns' wrists when he pulled the blindfold over Riddick's face, strapped on the bit and chains on him for transport and safekeeping. The bit Riddick hated and Johns always loved to put on, loved the staring game as he tightened it an extra notch. He always saved the blindfold for last, that way he could enjoy the fury in Riddick's eyes. When they weren't cold and dead as lizard eyes, Johns hated that. So he made sure to tease the bastard extra to get him fired up. Steal a little joy where one could, you know.  
  
"C'mere and I'll do you one good."  
  
"What, you think I'm afraid of you?" Oh he knows that in his system a fear is built in for Riddick, it'll always be there like the metal embedded into his spine that got left after Riddick stabbed him in the back. Once you've met that murdering monster one on one and survived it, it won't ever go away. But it's a known entity and nothing Johns puts much stock in anymore. It's just there as a not so gentle reminder to never ever turn your back on Riddick.  
  
"I know you are Johns, I can smell it on you every time we meet. You should know that by now."  
  
"I know you're full of shit."  
  
"I also know that right now afraid isn't what I'm getting off of you. You smell like heat boy, like someone revved up and ready to go. Now I gotta wonder is it the shiv? Is it the shaving? Or is it little ol' me?"  
  
John tsks and stretches against the hull of the skiff, "I think you've gone without for too long, Riddick. It's all in your warped mind."  
  
"Well, then you should feel right at home since you so crow so hard about knowing my mind well enough to track me down."  
  
"Track you down and capture you. Don't forget that detail."  
  
"I haven't forgotten, like I haven't forgotten about our little deal Johns. Have you?"  
  
Riddick's giving him that look, and with his goggles on Johns can't see his eyes, but he's happier not to. He scoffs, "Would I do that to you?"  
  
"In a heartbeat. You're a mercenary bent on revenge Johns, no matter how you pretty it up for the fools. I  _know_  you."  
  
"You don't know shit Riddick. Not a goddamn thing."  
  
Johns hadn't even realised how close he'd come until Riddick's hand flies out and grabbing his wrist in a steel grip. Reflexes like a fucking cobra on that one. "Take your hands off of me Riddick."  
  
Riddick makes a show of sniffing the air, grin wide like a shark's, "There we go, that fear ratcheting up again. Did you know that fear smells like blood tastes?"  
  
"You're one twisted motherfucker Riddick." Johns know it's no point to try and pull out of Riddick's grip. He's too strong in a match based simply on physical strength, no you had to learn how to surprise your way. Or weasel, that worked too. Just get some space between them, any means how. It's just that his brain's running on a lot of things and none of them useful.  
  
"Then you're one worse." Like an ambidextrous fucking cobra, Riddick's other hand palming his dick that's already half hard after Riddick's little show. Not that he'd ever planned on letting Riddick in on that little detail, no matter what his inhuman senses might tell him. Johns groans before he can stop it. It isn't loud, but enough to put that evil grin on Riddick's face. Then one that looks like he's about to eat you up, and you're not sure if he means it literally.  
  
"Mmm, thought so." His nostrils twitch, and his face is one smug looking bastard. "Was it the knife, then? Did I fuck you up that good, merc? Huh, you thinking about having it inside you again, against your skin, breaking you open?"  
  
"Fuck no." Johns can't stop himself from shuddering in revulsion, and refuses to look at Riddick. He  _knows_  not to give Riddick an inch because he will take so much more outta you. But the pain is like a bright reminder in his head, like a nightmare trapped in a tilt-a-whirl, and remembering the blood cooling as it's pumping out of his body onto the dusty floor.  
  
The wet tongue stroking across the pulse point in his wrists makes Johns jump hard enough to feel like his skin is about to tear off in Riddick's bruising grip. "I like you Johns." Johns can't stop staring, the tongue swirling the taste of him onto soft wide lips and the nasty smile that's spreading across Riddick's face. It's impossible to tell whether Riddick means the way Johns' taste, that he can smell his revulsion or any other nasty thing that lives inside Riddick's mind.  
  
"I  _don't_  like you."  
  
Which makes Riddick laugh, a deep rumbling bass of a laugh that seems genuine and Riddick relaxes his grip so that Johns finally can put some space between them. He won't say he runs a few steps back. No. Strategic retreat, keeping your life and all that.  
  
The shiv is back in Riddick's hand like magic, he has no sleeves to hide it in and his hands were full of Johns a second ago and yet he's stroking the sharp edge over the crown of his head. Slow, meticulous and so fucking hot. It's fucking with his head, just another thing Riddick can put on his list of things he twisted inside out in Johns. Not that he'd ever let Riddick know it, not even on pain of death and torture. Riddick's had his body and blood, he fucking refuses to give him his mind as well.  
  
"Oh I know. Your dick disagrees with you though."  
  
"You think about my dick a lot Riddick? It sure sounds like it."  
  
"A man takes his pleasures where he can. Don't you agree?" Johns' mind flips, like falling off a cliff suddenly, the way your stomach drops first. But no, Riddick isn't capable of mind reading suddenly. He'd have known. It's another freak coincidence of a well worn sentiment.  
  
"I really don't wanna know about your pleasures Riddick. Reading your file was enough."  
  
"Don't believe everything you read Johns."  
  
"Weep me a river and tell me another cliche. I thought you were quite pleased with your rap sheet Riddick. What, sociopathic serial killer and escaped convict isn't enough?"  
  
"Oh I take my pound of flesh where I want it, it's just there's a lot more to what you've been fed. Not that I expect you to believe me."  
  
"What, aren't we trusting each other now? Us against the monsters and all that?"  
  
Riddick looks up, "You trusting me even one tiny bit there Johns?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Ahh, honesty. I like that in a man."  
  
"You like a lot of weird shit." It's really fucking weird how he's still standing here talking to this freak. Johns wrist is throbbing with every beat of his pulse and he's gonna have a big ol' bruise tomorrow. But his dick is still fucking attached to the idea of newly shorn skin, velvet soft and hot to the touch, and his traitorous mind conjures up pretty imagery of skullfucking that mouth and his hands wrapped around that head. Not that he'd ever put his dick in a mouth that's known for enjoying the taste of blood, cut with Peppermint Schnapps or not.  
  
"Your smelling all prettily again Johns, want to do something with your problem there?"  
  
"Well aren't you amusing. You think I'd let you that close to me with a knife?"  
  
"You can handle yourself can't you?" Those eyebrows of his. Before Riddick and his goggled face Johns had no clue eyebrows could express so many things.  
  
"Oh I can, I just don't want you dead yet." Johns shifts his gun-belt a little, just to drive the point home. Not that Riddick has already catalogued where everyone keeps their weapons. He's got an eerily correct memory that way.  
  
"Let me guess, first line of defence if the monsters starts getting extra frisky?"  
  
"You got it."  
  
Riddick scrapes the last of the engine grease off of his shiv, dragging his wide hands across his head as if to make sure he didn't miss a spot. Johns suppresses a shiver at the sound it makes against Riddick's palms, he wants to do just that. Drag his palms and scratch the skin, rub his dick all over, the soft prickle of hair against his shaft teasing like nothing else ever manages to copy. His palms are sweating with the imagined sensation.  
  
"You come find me if you ever want to get rid of that itch there, Johns." Riddick stands up and leaves, with the same predatory grace the man always possesses, and Johns' fighting himself to stand fast and not flinch. He won't take Riddick up on that offer, he's too fond of his will to  _live_ for that. But there's always a shady corner and a vivid fucking imagination to tidy him over.


End file.
